Two hours earlier
The investigator I'd hired to dig into Brenda's death had delivered news that left me frozen on the edge of my bed, staring into nothing. Each word he spoke felt like a stone dropped into my stomach. It was true, Brenda and Davis hadn't been on good terms for a long time. I don't even think they have ever been on a good term. The tension between them had been building like a storm cloud, and the reason was painfully simple: Brenda believed Davis was a dangerous shadow in my life, a storm she feared would swallow me whole. But how was I supposed to choose? They were both pillars in my world, each holding up a part of me I wasn't ready to lose.
What she didn't know, what she couldn't have known was how far Davis's shadows stretched, how deep they pooled beneath the surface of the man she thought she understood, not until the night she witnessed one of his darker deeds. The kind of thing that could've buried him behind bars if she had dared to let the truth leave her lips. And because of that, Davis wanted the evidence gone. And erasing the evidence meant erasing Brenda.
I had begged her, God, I had begged her not to say a word. I swore I'd keep him under control, as if he were some wild, feral creature whose hunger only I knew how to calm. And because she loved me… God, because she had always loved me more than she ever should have, she agreed but only with one condition: whatever followed would rest on my shoulders. I pleaded again, desperate, and finally she relented, though her eyes carried the weight of a woman signing her own fate.
And I did the same with Davis, made him swear he would never touch Brenda. And because he loved me in his own twisted, loyal way, he agreed too. But like Brenda, he warned me that whatever came after if she chose to open her mouth, would be on me. And so I had been sitting between these two people like a thin, fraying thread stretched tight, the only thing keeping their storms at bay.
A few days later, the call came, Brenda had been murdered. The floor dropped out from under me. I was shattered, grief roaring through me like a second heartbeat. My mind didn't hesitate; it ran straight to Davis. I was convinced, absolutely convinced, my husband had done it. When I confronted him, he denied it. Swore on everything he held sacred. And when I looked into his eyes, that familiar, dangerous softness pulled me in. I believed him. I always believed him.
But this time… this time my heart didn't settle. It stayed heavy, aching, whispering the possibility that the man I loved might have crossed a line he could never return from.
That's when I decided to hire a private investigator, since the police hadn't given me anything resembling truth, only empty condolences and cold paperwork. But when his initial report landed in my hands, it didn't just hurt; it shattered me in a way I didn't know a heart could break. In that moment, I swore I'd avenge Brenda. She had been more than a friend, she was the sister life had forgotten to give me. Our story stretched all the way back to when I was just a frightened teenage girl, and she pulled me out of one of the darkest hours of my life. That's why both she and Davis occupied such sacred, tangled spaces in my world, and why I had prayed—foolishly—that somehow they would learn to coexist. But fate has never been kind to dreamers. And she… she didn't deserve to die like that.
Whatever love I once had for my husband disintegrated overnight, burned to ash and replaced with a cocktail of anger, hatred, and bone-deep regret. That's when I wrote the letter, my confession, my warning, my goodbye. I slipped it into its hiding place in the living room, a secret folded between the walls of our dying home. The plan was simple: once Mama and I were far, far away beyond the reach of that evil man, I'd send him a message, a single text pointing him to its resting place. Let the truth detonate behind us while we escaped with our lives.
Now I knew I'd been wrong, so painfully, disastrously, unforgivably wrong. Everything I had built with my husband, every fragile brick of trust and history, trembled on the edge of collapse. All because of one reckless, stupid mistake. I had to fix it….. fast. There was still time, or so I prayed as I sped down the road, begging whatever mercy existed that Davis hadn't found that letter yet. Because now everything, my future, my safety, my sanity—balanced on that single piece of paper.
As I drove, my mind flicked back to Apollo. The phone, still lying on the floor where I'd thrown it, began to ring again. I leaned down carefully, keeping one eye on the road while my free hand fumbled blindly for the device. When I finally risked a glance downward and saw Apollo's name glowing on the screen, desperation and relief crashed into me all at once. I reached for it but before my fingers could touch it, a blaring horn ripped through the air. I jerked my head up just in time to see another car barreling toward me, only a few feet away. I had drifted into the wrong lane without even realizing it. I swerved sharply, tires screaming, barely dodging a collision by a breath. And just like that, the phone stopped ringing.
I let out a shaky breath, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs. Everything was happening too fast, stealing away the space to think, to breathe. I needed to stop Apollo from executing the orders I'd given him but at the same time I had to race home and destroy the letter before my husband's eyes landed on it. And on top of all that, I needed to not die in the process.
The only good news? I was almost home.
A few minutes later, I pulled up to the house. I parked outside the gate, jumped out, swung open the small pedestrian gate, and handed the car keys to the guard with a rushed gesture, signaling him to park the car. I hurried inside, phone pressed to my ear as I tried—again—to reach Apollo.
But the moment I stepped into the house, everything inside me stopped.
My eyes landed on the one thing I had prayed—begged—God not to see.
The letter.
In my husband's hand.